Crime and Punishment

He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxi-
ety and vague apprehension.

It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at
twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and
unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to
the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents
of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Is-
land. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and
his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov
could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first,
and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents
that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that
he did not know what he was doing vanished immediate-
ly. The decrepit father was wheeled in to see Svidrigaïlov
by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the
conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never
asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing
her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain some-
thing—for instance, when Svidrigaïlov would like to have
the wedding—she would begin by interested and almost ea-
ger questions about Paris and the court life there, and only
by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street.
On other occasions this had of course been very impressive,
but this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly impa-
tient, and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though
he had been informed, to begin with, that she had already
gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.

Svidrigaïlov informed her at once that he was obliged
by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time,

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and therefore brought her fifteen thousand roubles and
begged her accept them as a present from him, as he had
long been intending to make her this trifling present be-
fore their wedding. The logical connection of the present
with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of
visiting them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight
was not made clear. But it all went off very well; even the
inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable
questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the
other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and
was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers.
Svidrigaïlov got up, laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted
her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing
in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of ear-
nest dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though
he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his pres-
ent would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the
most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in
a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mam-
ma, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the
most important of their doubts, concluding that Svidriga-
ïlov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections
and of great wealth—there was no knowing what he had
in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away
money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing
surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet
through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more ec-
centric, and all these people of high society didn’t think of
what was said of them and didn’t stand on ceremony. Pos-

702 Crime and Punishment

sibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he
was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be
said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and the
money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that
Fedosya, the cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all
not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich,
and so on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o’clock,
but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather
sorrowful.

Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed
the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had
ceased and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering,
and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Lit-
tle Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he
soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and
went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless
street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once
stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but contin-
ually looking for something on the right side of the street.
He had noticed passing through this street lately that there
was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but
fairly large, and its name he remembered was something
like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so con-
spicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail
to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden
building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in
the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked
a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The
latter, scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself together and

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led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at
the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other,
all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly.

‘Is there tea?’ asked Svidrigaïlov.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What else is there?’
‘Veal, vodka, savouries.’
‘Bring me tea and veal.’
‘And you want nothing else?’ he asked with apparent sur-
prise.
‘Nothing, nothing.’
The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
‘It must be a nice place,’ thought Svidrigaïlov. ‘How was
it I didn’t know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café
chantant and have had some adventure on the way. It would
be interesting to know who stay here?’
He lighted the candle and looked at the room more care-
fully. It was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could
only just stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which
was very dirty, and the plain- stained chair and table almost
filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of
planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that
the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general co-
lour—yellow—could still be made out. One of the walls was
cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not
an attic but just under the stairs.
Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed
and sank into thought. But a strange persistent murmur
which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted

704 Crime and Punishment

his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment
he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding
and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.

Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and
at once he saw light through a crack in the wall; he went
up and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat
larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very
curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing
in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide
apart to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the
breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with
having no standing whatever. He declared that he had tak-
en the other out of the gutter and he could turn him out
when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it
all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and
had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but
can’t. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on
the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what
he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was
burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a near-
ly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses
with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this,
Svidrigaïlov turned away indifferently and sat down on the
bed.

The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not
resist asking him again whether he didn’t want anything
more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew.
Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a glass of tea to warm him-
self, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish.

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He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket,
lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. ‘It would have been
better to be well for the occasion,’ he thought with a smile.
The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was
roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner
and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort
of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing
to fix his imagination on something. ‘It must be a garden
under the window,’ he thought. ‘There’s a sound of trees.
How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the
dark! They give one a horrid feeling.’ He remembered how
he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now.
This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he
felt cold again as he had when standing there. ‘I never have
liked water,’ he thought, ‘even in a landscape,’ and he sud-
denly smiled again at a strange idea: ‘Surely now all these
questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve
become more particular, like an animal that picks out a spe-
cial place … for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into
the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha!
As though I were seeking pleasant sensations! … By the way,
why haven’t I put out the candle?’ he blew it out. ‘They’ve
gone to bed next door,’ he thought, not seeing the light at
the crack. ‘Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for
you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very time and place for you.
But now you won’t come!’

He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out
his design on Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov
to trust her to Razumihin’s keeping. ‘I suppose I really did

706 Crime and Punishment

say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a
rogue that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a good deal.
He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over his
nonsense. But now he’s too eager for life. These young men
are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let
him please himself, it’s nothing to do with me.’

He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image
rose before him, and a shudder ran over him. ‘No, I must
give up all that now,’ he thought, rousing himself. ‘I must
think of something else. It’s queer and funny. I never had
a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly desired to
avenge myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad
sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my tem-
per— that’s a bad sign too. And the promises I made her
just now, too— Damnation! But—who knows?—perhaps
she would have made a new man of me somehow….’

He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again
Dounia’s image rose before him, just as she was when, after
shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in ter-
ror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized
her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to de-
fend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at
that instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a
pang at his heart …

‘Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it
away!’

He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when
suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg
under the bedclothes. He started. ‘Ugh! hang it! I believe

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it’s a mouse,’ he thought, ‘that’s the veal I left on the table.’
He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up,
get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his
leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle.
Shaking with feverish chill he bent down to examine the
bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly
a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but
the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed,
slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly
darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in
one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over
his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled
nervously and woke up.

The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped
up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under
the window. ‘How disgusting,’ he thought with annoyance.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his
back to the window. ‘It’s better not to sleep at all,’ he de-
cided. There was a cold damp draught from the window,
however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him
and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything
and did not want to think. But one image rose after anoth-
er, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end
passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Per-
haps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind
that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a
sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling
on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden,
a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A

708 Crime and Punishment

fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste over-
grown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round
the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded
with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich
rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He no-
ticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white,
heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green,
thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from
them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high
drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the
doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were
flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant
hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came
into the room. The birds were chirruping under the win-
dow, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with
a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered
with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths
of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers
lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed
and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble.
But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses
on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face
looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on
her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and
sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no
holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound
of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only four-
teen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed
herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed

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that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with un-
merited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair,
unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the
cold and wet while the wind howled….

Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and
went to the window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The
wind lashed furiously into the little room and stung his face
and his chest, only covered with his shirt, as though with
frost. Under the window there must have been something
like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too,
probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime.
Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and
bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that he could only just
make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigaïlov, bending
down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five min-
utes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed by a
second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. ‘Ah, the
signal! The river is overflowing,’ he thought. ‘By morning it
will be swirling down the street in the lower parts, flood-
ing the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out,
and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their
rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is it now?’ And he
had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the
wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.

‘Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out
at once straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush there
drenched with rain, so that as soon as one’s shoulder touch-
es it, millions of drops drip on one’s head.’

He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the

710 Crime and Punishment

candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and
went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for
the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in
the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay
him for the room and leave the hotel. ‘It’s the best minute; I
couldn’t choose a better.’

He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor
without finding anyone and was just going to call out, when
suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the
door he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to
be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl,
not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her
clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem
afraid of Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amaze-
ment out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as
children do when they have been crying a long time, but are
beginning to be comforted. The child’s face was pale and
tired, she was numb with cold. ‘How can she have come
here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night.’ He
began questioning her. The child suddenly becoming an-
imated, chattered away in her baby language, something
about ‘mammy’ and that ‘mammy would beat her,’ and
about some cup that she had ‘bwoken.’ The child chattered
on without stopping. He could only guess from what she
said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, prob-
ably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped
and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her
mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the
evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere

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outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hid-
den behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying
and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear
that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his
arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and be-
gan undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her
stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in
a puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her
on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket
from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he
sank into dreary musing again.

‘What folly to trouble myself,’ he decided suddenly with
an oppressive feeling of annoyance. ‘What idiocy!’ In vexa-
tion he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged
attendant again and make haste to go away. ‘Damn the child!’
he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to see
whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket careful-
ly. The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under
the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange
to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy
cheeks of childhood. ‘It’s a flush of fever,’ thought Svidriga-
ïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had
been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot
and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that
her long black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids
were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an un-
childlike wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but
pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The
corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying

712 Crime and Punishment

to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now
it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless,
provocative in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity,
it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French
harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing,
shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him….
There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in
that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of
a child. ‘What, at five years old?’ Svidrigaïlov muttered in
genuine horror. ‘What does it mean?’ And now she turned
to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms…. ‘Ac-
cursed child!’ Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike
her, but at that moment he woke up.

He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The
candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in
at the windows.

‘I’ve had nightmare all night!’ He got up angrily, feeling
utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist
outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had
overslept himself! He got up, put on his still damp jacket
and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it
out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket
and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote
a few lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into
thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the
notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up and settled on
the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared
at them and at last with his free right hand began trying
to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch

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it. At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting
pursuit, he started, got up and walked resolutely out of the
room. A minute later he was in the street.

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov
walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement to-
wards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the
Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet
paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the
bush…. He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, try-
ing to think of something else. There was not a cabman or
a passer-by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little
houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters.
The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he be-
gan to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs
and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the
wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty,
shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its
legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk,
across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high
tower stood up on the left. ‘Bah!’ he shouted, ‘here is a place.
Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an
official witness anyway….’

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the
street where there was the big house with the tower. At the
great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his
shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s
coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a
drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore
that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly

714 Crime and Punishment

printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They
both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a
few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as
irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps
from him, staring and not saying a word.

‘What do you want here?’ he said, without moving or
changing his position.

‘Nothing, brother, good morning,’ answered Svidriga-
ïlov.

‘This isn’t the place.’
‘I am going to foreign parts, brother.’
‘To foreign parts?’
‘To America.’
‘America.’
Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles
raised his eyebrows.
‘I say, this is not the place for such jokes!’
‘Why shouldn’t it be the place?’
‘Because it isn’t.’
‘Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When
you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to Amer-
ica.’
He put the revolver to his right temple.
‘You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,’ cried Achilles,
rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.
Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

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Chapter VII

The same day, about seven o’clock in the evening, Ras-
kolnikov was on his way to his mother’s and sister’s
lodging—the lodging in Bakaleyev’s house which Razumi-
hin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street.
Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesi-
tating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned
him back: his decision was taken.

‘Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,’ he
thought, ‘and they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.’

He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty,
soaked with a night’s rain. His face was almost distorted
from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted
for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night
alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a de-
cision.

He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother.
Dounia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be
out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with
joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew
him into the room.

‘Here you are!’ she began, faltering with joy. ‘Don’t be
angry with me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with
tears: I am laughing not crying. Did you think I was crying?
No, I am delighted, but I’ve got into such a stupid habit of

716 Crime and Punishment

shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever since your father’s
death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be
tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.’

‘I was in the rain yesterday, mother….’ Raskolnikov be-
gan.

‘No, no,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupt-
ed, ‘you thought I was going to cross-question you in the
womanish way I used to; don’t be anxious, I understand, I
understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways here and truly
I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my mind
once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect
you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns
and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching;
so it’s not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you
what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I
running to and fro as though I were crazy … ? I am read-
ing your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya.
Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried
out to myself: ‘There, foolish one,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he
is busy about; that’s the solution of the mystery! Learned
people are always like that. He may have some new ideas
in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I worry
him and upset him.’ I read it, my dear, and of course there
was a great deal I did not understand; but that’s only natu-
ral—how should I?’

‘Show me, mother.’
Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his
article. Incongruous as it was with his mood and his cir-
cumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation

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that every author experiences the first time he sees himself
in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a
moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart
throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict
of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table
with disgust and anger.

‘But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for my-
self that you will very soon be one of the leading—if not the
leading man—in the world of Russian thought. And they
dared to think you were mad! You don’t know, but they re-
ally thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could
they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but
believing it—what do you say to that? Your father sent twice
to magazines—the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript
and will show you) and the second time a whole novel (I
begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that
they should be taken—they weren’t! I was breaking my
heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your
clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how
foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by
your intellect and talent. No doubt you don’t care about that
for the present and you are occupied with much more im-
portant matters….’

‘Dounia’s not at home, mother?’
‘No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone.
Dmitri Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and
he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you,
my dear. I don’t say that Dounia is very wanting in consid-
eration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have

718 Crime and Punishment

mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never
have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that
Dounia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you
and me … but I don’t know what it will all lead to. You’ve
made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has
missed you by going out; when she comes in I’ll tell her:
‘Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you
been all this time?’ You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you know;
come when you can, but if you can’t, it doesn’t matter, I can
wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will
be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear
about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll come your-
self to see me. What could be better? Here you’ve come now
to comfort your mother, I see that.’

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
‘Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My good-
ness, why am I sitting here?’ she cried, jumping up. ‘There is
coffee and I don’t offer you any. Ah, that’s the selfishness of
old age. I’ll get it at once!’
‘Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once. I haven’t come
for that. Please listen to me.’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.
‘Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me,
whatever you are told about me, will you always love me
as you do now?’ he asked suddenly from the fullness of his
heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weigh-
ing them.
‘Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me
such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you?

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Besides, I shouldn’t believe anyone, I should refuse to lis-
ten.’

‘I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and
I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,’ he
went on with the same impulse. ‘I have come to tell you that
though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son
loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought
about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you, was
all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you…. Well, that’s
enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this….’

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, press-
ing him to her bosom and weeping gently.

‘I don’t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,’ she said
at last. ‘I’ve been thinking all this time that we were sim-
ply boring you and now I see that there is a great sorrow in
store for you, and that’s why you are miserable. I’ve fore-
seen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking about it.
I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister
lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but
you. I caught something, but I couldn’t make it out. I felt all
the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting
for something, expecting something, and now it has come!
Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are going away
somewhere?’

‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know,
if you need me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves
you dearly—and Sofya Semyonovna may come with us if
you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter

720 Crime and Punishment

even … Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together. But …
where … are you going?’

‘Good-bye, mother.’
‘What, to-day?’ she cried, as though losing him for ever.
‘I can’t stay, I must go now….’
‘And can’t I come with you?’
‘No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer
perhaps will reach Him.’
‘Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That’s right,
that’s right. Oh, God, what are we doing?’
Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one
there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time
after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell
down before her, he kissed her feet and both wept, embrac-
ing. And she was not surprised and did not question him
this time. For some days she had realised that something
awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible
minute had come for him.
‘Rodya, my darling, my first born,’ she said sobbing, ‘now
you are just as when you were little. You would run like this
to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father was liv-
ing and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being
with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept
together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I’ve been
crying lately, it’s that my mother’s heart had a foreboding of
trouble. The first time I saw you, that evening, you remem-
ber, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed simply from your
eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day when I opened the
door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come.

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Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to-day?’
‘No!’
‘You’ll come again?’
‘Yes … I’ll come.’
‘Rodya, don’t be angry, I don’t dare to question you. I

know I mustn’t. Only say two words to me—is it far where
you are going?’

‘Very far.’
‘What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for
you?’
‘What God sends … only pray for me.’ Raskolnikov went
to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despairingly
into his eyes. Her face worked with terror.
‘Enough, mother,’ said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting
that he had come.
‘Not for ever, it’s not yet for ever? You’ll come, you’ll
come to-morrow?’
‘I will, I will, good-bye.’ He tore himself away at last.
It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up
in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made
haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want
to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs he noticed that
Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him intently.
‘Can anyone have come to see me?’ he wondered. He had
a disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw
Dounia. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought,
and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He
stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dis-
may and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him,

722 Crime and Punishment

betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes
alone he saw at once that she knew.

‘Am I to come in or go away?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘I’ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both
waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come
there.’
Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on
a chair.
‘I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have
liked at this moment to be able to control myself.’
He glanced at her mistrustfully.
‘Where were you all night?’
‘I don’t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to
make up my mind once for all, and several times I walked
by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there,
but … I couldn’t make up my mind,’ he whispered, looking
at her mistrustfully again.
‘Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya
Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank
God, thank God!’
Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
‘I haven’t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother’s
arms; I haven’t faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me.
I don’t know how it is, Dounia, I don’t understand it.’
‘Have you been at mother’s? Have you told her?’ cried
Dounia, horror- stricken. ‘Surely you haven’t done that?’
‘No, I didn’t tell her … in words; but she understood a
great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure
she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in go-

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ing to see her. I don’t know why I did go. I am a contemptible
person, Dounia.’

‘A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You
are, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I
thought of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into
the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong
till now I’d better not be afraid of disgrace,’ he said, hurry-
ing on. ‘It’s pride, Dounia.’

‘Pride, Rodya.’
There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed
to be glad to think that he was still proud.
‘You don’t think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the wa-
ter?’ he asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
‘Oh, Rodya, hush!’ cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted
for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor;
Dounia stood at the other end of the table and looked at
him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.
‘It’s late, it’s time to go! I am going at once to give myself
up. But I don’t know why I am going to give myself up.’
Big tears fell down her cheeks.
‘You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand
to me?’
‘You doubted it?’
She threw her arms round him.
‘Aren’t you half expiating your crime by facing the suffer-
ing?’ she cried, holding him close and kissing him.
‘Crime? What crime?’ he cried in sudden fury. ‘That I
killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of

724 Crime and Punishment

use to no one! … Killing her was atonement for forty sins.
She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a
crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of ex-
piating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? ‘A
crime! a crime!’ Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my
cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous
disgrace. It’s simply because I am contemptible and have
nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my
advantage, as that … Porfiry … suggested!’

‘Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have
shed blood?’ cried Dounia in despair.

‘Which all men shed,’ he put in almost frantically, ‘which
flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like
champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capi-
tol and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind. Look
into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do
good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of
good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not
stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for the idea was by no
means so stupid as it seems now that it has failed…. (Ev-
erything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I only
wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take
the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would
have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in com-
parison…. But I … I couldn’t carry out even the first step,
because I am contemptible, that’s what’s the matter! And
yet I won’t look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should
have been crowned with glory, but now I’m trapped.’

‘But that’s not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?’

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‘Ah, it’s not picturesque, not æsthetically attractive! I fail
to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is
more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symp-
tom of impotence. I’ve never, never recognised this more
clearly than now, and I am further than ever from seeing
that what I did was a crime. I’ve never, never been stronger
and more convinced than now.’

The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as
he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dou-
nia’s eyes and he saw such anguish in them that he could
not help being checked. He felt that he had, anyway, made
these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the
cause …

‘Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I can-
not be forgiven if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won’t dispute.
It’s time, high time to go. Don’t follow me, I beseech you,
I have somewhere else to go…. But you go at once and sit
with mother. I entreat you to! It’s my last request of you.
Don’t leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that she
is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with
her! Razumihin will be with you. I’ve been talking to him….
Don’t cry about me: I’ll try to be honest and manly all my
life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make
a name. I won’t disgrace you, you will see; I’ll still show….
Now good-bye for the present,’ he concluded hurriedly, no-
ticing again a strange expression in Dounia’s eyes at his last
words and promises. ‘Why are you crying? Don’t cry, don’t
cry: we are not parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I’d
forgotten!’

726 Crime and Punishment

He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened
it and took from between the pages a little water-colour por-
trait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady’s daughter,
who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to
be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive
face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to Dou-
nia.

‘I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,’ he
said thoughtfully. ‘To her heart I confided much of what
has since been so hideously realised. Don’t be uneasy,’ he
returned to Dounia, ‘she was as much opposed to it as you,
and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that ev-
erything now is going to be different, is going to be broken
in two,’ he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. ‘Ev-
erything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it
myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What’s the
object of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any bet-
ter what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and
idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years’ penal
servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I
consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible
when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!’

At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but
she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces
she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight.
At the corner he too turned and for the last time their eyes
met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned
her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned
the corner abruptly.

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‘I am wicked, I see that,’ he thought to himself, feeling
ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia.
‘But why are they so fond of me if I don’t deserve it? Oh, if
only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never
loved anyone! Nothing of all this would have happened. But I
wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek
that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at ev-
ery word that I am a criminal? Yes, that’s it, that’s it, that’s
what they are sending me there for, that’s what they want.
Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every
one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse
still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they’d be wild with
righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!’

He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass,
that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscrimi-
nately—humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must
be so. Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush
him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should
he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that
it would be so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he
had asked himself that question since the previous evening,
but still he went.

728 Crime and Punishment

Chapter VIII

When he went into Sonia’s room, it was already getting
dark. All day Sonia had been waiting for him in ter-
rible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting with her. She had
come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigaïlov’s
words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the conver-
sation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they
became. Dounia gained one comfort at least from that in-
terview, that her brother would not be alone. He had gone
to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her
for human fellowship when he needed it; she would go with
him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask, but
she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with rever-
ence and at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was
almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary,
hardly worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia’s gracious image
when she had bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at
their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room had remained in
her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.

Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went
to her brother’s room to await him there; she kept thinking
that he would come there first. When she had gone, Sonia
began to be tortured by the dread of his committing suicide,
and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent the day trying
to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were

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less anxious while they were together. As soon as they part-
ed, each thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how
Svidrigaïlov had said to her the day before that Raskolnikov
had two alternatives—Siberia or … Besides she knew his
vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.

‘Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear
of death to make him live?’ she thought at last in despair.

Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in
dejection, looking intently out of the window, but from it
she could see nothing but the unwhitewashed blank wall
of the next house. At last when she began to feel sure of his
death—he walked into the room.

She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face
she turned pale.

‘Yes,’ said Raskolnikov, smiling. ‘I have come for your
cross, Sonia. It was you told me to go to the cross-roads;
why is it you are frightened now it’s come to that?’

Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange
to her; a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she
guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke
to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes.

‘You see, Sonia, I’ve decided that it will be better so.
There is one fact…. But it’s a long story and there’s no need
to discuss it. But do you know what angers me? It annoys
me that all those stupid brutish faces will be gaping at me
directly, pestering me with their stupid questions, which
I shall have to answer—they’ll point their fingers at me….
Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him.
I’d rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how

730 Crime and Punishment

I shall surprise him, what a sensation I shall make! But I
must be cooler; I’ve become too irritable of late. You know I
was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now, because she
turned to take a last look at me. It’s a brutal state to be in!
Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the crosses?’

He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could
not stay still or concentrate his attention on anything; his
ideas seemed to gallop after one another, he talked incoher-
ently, his hands trembled slightly.

Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses,
one of cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign
of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden
cross on his neck.

‘It’s the symbol of my taking up the cross,’ he laughed.
‘As though I had not suffered much till now! The wooden
cross, that is the peasant one; the copper one, that is Lizave-
ta’s—you will wear yourself, show me! So she had it on … at
that moment? I remember two things like these too, a silver
one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old wom-
an’s neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are
what I ought to put on now…. But I am talking nonsense
and forgetting what matters; I’m somehow forgetful…. You
see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you might know
… that’s all— that’s all I came for. But I thought I had more
to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am going
to prison and you’ll have your wish. Well, what are you cry-
ing for? You too? Don’t. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!’

But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked
at her. ‘Why is she grieving too?’ he thought to himself.

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‘What am I to her? Why does she weep? Why is she looking
after me, like my mother or Dounia? She’ll be my nurse.’

‘Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,’ Sonia begged in a
timid broken voice.

‘Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia,
sincerely….’

But he wanted to say something quite different.
He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her
shawl and put it over her head. It was the green drap de
dames shawl of which Marmeladov had spoken, ‘the fam-
ily shawl.’ Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it, but
he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he was cer-
tainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He
was frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the
thought that Sonia meant to go with him.
‘What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here,
stay! I’ll go alone,’ he cried in cowardly vexation, and al-
most resentful, he moved towards the door. ‘What’s the use
of going in procession?’ he muttered going out.
Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He
had not even said good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A
poignant and rebellious doubt surged in his heart.
‘Was it right, was it right, all this?’ he thought again as
he went down the stairs. ‘Couldn’t he stop and retract it all
… and not go?’
But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he
mustn’t ask himself questions. As he turned into the street
he remembered that he had not said good-bye to Sonia, that
he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl,

732 Crime and Punishment

not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped
short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought
dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to
strike him then.

‘Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told
her—on business; on what business? I had no sort of busi-
ness! To tell her I was going; but where was the need? Do I
love her? No, no, I drove her away just now like a dog. Did I
want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk! No, I wanted her
tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart ached!
I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me,
some friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself,
to dream of what I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible
wretch, contemptible!’

He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much
further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped and
turning out of his way along it went to the Hay Market.

He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at
every object and could not fix his attention on anything;
everything slipped away. ‘In another week, another month
I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how shall
I look at the canal then? I should like to remember this!’
slipped into his mind. ‘Look at this sign! How shall I read
those letters then? It’s written here ‘Campany,’ that’s a
thing to remember, that letter a and to look at it again in
a month—how shall I look at it then? What shall I be feel-
ing and thinking then? … How trivial it all must be, what
I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be interest-
ing … in its way … (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?)

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I am becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I
ashamed? Foo! how people shove! that fat man—a German
he must be—who pushed against me, does he know whom
he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby, begging.
It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I might
give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s a five
copeck piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here
… take it, my good woman!’

‘God bless you,’ the beggar chanted in a lachrymose
voice.

He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very dis-
tasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw
most people. He would have given anything in the world to
be alone; but he knew himself that he would not have re-
mained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and
disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling
down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed
his way through the crowd, stared for some minutes at
the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh.
A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him,
though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remem-
bering where he was; but when he got into the middle of the
square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming
him body and mind.

He suddenly recalled Sonia’s words, ‘Go to the cross-
roads, bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have
sinned against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, ‘I
am a murderer.’’ He trembled, remembering that. And
the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especial-

734 Crime and Punishment

ly of the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that
he positively clutched at the chance of this new unmixed,
complete sensation. It came over him like a fit; it was like a
single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through
him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears start-
ed into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot….

He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down
to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rap-
ture. He got up and bowed down a second time.

‘He’s boozed,’ a youth near him observed.
There was a roar of laughter.
‘He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye
to his children and his country. He’s bowing down to all
the world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its
pavement,’ added a workman who was a little drunk.
‘Quite a young man, too!’ observed a third.
‘And a gentleman,’ someone observed soberly.
‘There’s no knowing who’s a gentleman and who isn’t
nowadays.’
These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov,
and the words, ‘I am a murderer,’ which were perhaps on
the point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore
these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking
round, he turned down a street leading to the police office.
He had a glimpse of something on the way which did not
surprise him; he had felt that it must be so. The second time
he bowed down in the Hay Market he saw, standing fifty
paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from him
behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She

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had followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at
that moment felt and knew once for all that Sonia was with
him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth,
wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart … but he
was just reaching the fatal place.

He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount
to the third storey. ‘I shall be some time going up,’ he
thought. He felt as though the fateful moment was still far
off, as though he had plenty of time left for consideration.

Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about
on the spiral stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again
the same kitchens and the same fumes and stench coming
from them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day.
His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they
moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath,
to collect himself, so as to enter like a man. ‘But why? what
for?’ he wondered, reflecting. ‘If I must drink the cup what
difference does it make? The more revolting the better.’ He
imagined for an instant the figure of the ‘explosive lieuten-
ant,’ Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him? Couldn’t
he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn’t he
turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s lodgings?
At least then it would be done privately…. No, no! To the ‘ex-
plosive lieutenant’! If he must drink it, drink it off at once.

Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door
of the office. There were very few people in it this time—
only a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not
even peep out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked
into the next room. ‘Perhaps I still need not speak,’ passed

736 Crime and Punishment

through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform
was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner anoth-
er clerk was seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of
course, Nikodim Fomitch.

‘No one in?’ Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person
at the bureau.

‘Whom do you want?’
‘A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but
I scent the Russian … how does it go on in the fairy tale …
I’ve forgotten! ‘At your service!’’ a familiar voice cried sud-
denly.
Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood
before him. He had just come in from the third room. ‘It is
the hand of fate,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Why is he here?’
‘You’ve come to see us? What about?’ cried Ilya Petro-
vitch. He was obviously in an exceedingly good humour
and perhaps a trifle exhilarated. ‘If it’s on business you are
rather early.[*] It’s only a chance that I am here … however
I’ll do what I can. I must admit, I … what is it, what is it?
Excuse me….’
[*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after
sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the police
office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for coming
too late.—TRANSLATOR.
‘Raskolnikov.’
‘Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t imagine I’d forgotten?
Don’t think I am like that … Rodion Ro—Ro—Rodiono-
vitch, that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Rodion Romanovitch.’

Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 737

‘Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just get-
ting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure you I’ve
been genuinely grieved since that … since I behaved like
that … it was explained to me afterwards that you were a
literary man … and a learned one too … and so to say the
first steps … Mercy on us! What literary or scientific man
does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and
I have the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it’s a
genuine passion! Literature and art! If only a man is a gen-
tleman, all the rest can be gained by talents, learning, good
sense, genius. As for a hat—well, what does a hat matter? I
can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but what’s under the
hat, what the hat covers, I can’t buy that! I was even mean-
ing to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you’d
… But I am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want
really? I hear your family have come?’

‘Yes, my mother and sister.’
‘I’ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting your
sister—a highly cultivated and charming person. I confess
I was sorry I got so hot with you. There it is! But as for my
looking suspiciously at your fainting fit—that affair has
been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism! I un-
derstand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your
lodging on account of your family’s arriving?’
‘No, I only looked in … I came to ask … I thought that I
should find Zametov here.’
‘Oh, yes! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well,
no, Zametov is not here. Yes, we’ve lost Zametov. He’s not
been here since yesterday … he quarrelled with everyone on

738 Crime and Punishment

leaving … in the rudest way. He is a feather-headed young-
ster, that’s all; one might have expected something from
him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young
men. He wanted to go in for some examination, but it’s only
to talk and boast about it, it will go no further than that. Of
course it’s a very different matter with you or Mr. Razumi-
hin there, your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and
you won’t be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all
the attractions of life nihil est—you are an ascetic, a monk,
a hermit! … A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned re-
search—that’s where your spirit soars! I am the same way
myself…. Have you read Livingstone’s Travels?’

‘No.’
‘Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowa-
days, you know, and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What
sort of days are they? I ask you. But we thought … you are
not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly, openly!’
‘N-no …’
‘Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to
yourself! Official duty is one thing but … you are thinking I
meant to say friendship is quite another? No, you’re wrong!
It’s not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the
feeling of humanity and of love for the Almighty. I may be
an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a man and
a citizen…. You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will
make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad reputa-
tion, over a glass of champagne … that’s all your Zametov
is good for! While I’m perhaps, so to speak, burning with
devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank, conse-

Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 739

quence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfil the
duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I ap-
peal to you as a man ennobled by education … Then these
midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous.’

Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words
of Ilya Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for
the most part a stream of empty sounds for him. But some
of them he understood. He looked at him inquiringly, not
knowing how it would end.

‘I mean those crop-headed wenches,’ the talkative Ilya
Petrovitch continued. ‘Midwives is my name for them. I
think it a very satisfactory one, ha-ha! They go to the Acad-
emy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am I to send for a young
lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!’ Ilya Petrovitch
laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. ‘It’s an immoderate
zeal for education, but once you’re educated, that’s enough.
Why abuse it? Why insult honourable people, as that scoun-
drel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Look
at these suicides, too, how common they are, you can’t fan-
cy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill themselves,
boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard
about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch,
I say, what was the name of that gentleman who shot him-
self?’

‘Svidrigaïlov,’ someone answered from the other room
with drowsy listlessness.

Raskolnikov started.
‘Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov has shot himself!’ he cried.
‘What, do you know Svidrigaïlov?’

740 Crime and Punishment

‘Yes … I knew him…. He hadn’t been here long.’
‘Yes, that’s so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless
habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shock-
ing way…. He left in his notebook a few words: that he dies
in full possession of his faculties and that no one is to blame
for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come
to know him?’
‘I … was acquainted … my sister was governess in his
family.’
‘Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something
about him. You had no suspicion?’
‘I saw him yesterday … he … was drinking wine; I knew
nothing.’
Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him
and was stifling him.
‘You’ve turned pale again. It’s so stuffy here …’
‘Yes, I must go,’ muttered Raskolnikov. ‘Excuse my trou-
bling you….’
‘Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It’s a pleasure to see
you and I am glad to say so.’
Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.
‘I only wanted … I came to see Zametov.’
‘I understand, I understand, and it’s a pleasure to see
you.’
‘I … am very glad … good-bye,’ Raskolnikov smiled.
He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness
and did not know what he was doing. He began going down
the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against
the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his

Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 741

way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower
storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a
rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into
the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale
and horror- stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood
still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of de-
spair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in
an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned
and went back to the police office.

Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among
some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had
pushed by on the stairs.

‘Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind?
What’s the matter?’

Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came
slowly nearer. He walked right to the table, leaned his hand
on it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent
sounds were audible.

‘You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!’
Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes
fixed on the face of Ilya Petrovitch, which expressed un-
pleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute
and waited. Water was brought.
‘It was I …’ began Raskolnikov.
‘Drink some water.’
Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly
and brokenly, but distinctly said:
‘It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister
Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them.’

742 Crime and Punishment

Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all
sides.

Raskolnikov repeated his statement.

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Epilogue

744 Crime and Punishment

I

Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a
town, one of the administrative centres of Russia; in the
town there is a fortress, in the fortress there is a prison. In
the prison the second-class convict Rodion Raskolnikov
has been confined for nine months. Almost a year and a
half has passed since his crime.

There had been little difficulty about his trial. The crimi-
nal adhered exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He
did not confuse nor misrepresent the facts, nor soften them
in his own interest, nor omit the smallest detail. He ex-
plained every incident of the murder, the secret of the pledge
(the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was found
in the murdered woman’s hand. He described minutely how
he had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the
chest and its contents; he explained the mystery of Lizave-
ta’s murder; described how Koch and, after him, the student
knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another;
how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Niko-
lay and Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty
flat and afterwards gone home. He ended by indicating the
stone in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect under which
the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in
fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were
very much struck, among other things, by the fact that he

Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 745

had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, with-
out making use of them, and that, what was more, he did
not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how
many there were. The fact that he had never opened the
purse and did not even know how much was in it seemed
incredible. There turned out to be in the purse three hun-
dred and seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being
so long under the stone, some of the most valuable notes
lying uppermost had suffered from the damp. They were a
long while trying to discover why the accused man should
tell a lie about this, when about everything else he had made
a truthful and straightforward confession. Finally some
of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it
was possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so
didn’t know what was in it when he hid it under the stone.
But they immediately drew the deduction that the crime
could only have been committed through temporary men-
tal derangement, through homicidal mania, without object
or the pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fash-
ionable theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in
our days in criminal cases. Moreover Raskolnikov’s hypo-
chondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by
Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and
her servant. All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that
Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer and
robber, but that there was another element in the case.

To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this
opinion, the criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself.
To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him

746 Crime and Punishment

to the murder and the robbery, he answered very clearly
with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miser-
able position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire
to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three
thousand roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been
led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature,
exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the ques-
tion what led him to confess, he answered that it was his
heartfelt repentance. All this was almost coarse….

The sentence however was more merciful than could have
been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal had not
tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to
exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar circum-
stances of the crime were taken into consideration. There
could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken
condition of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had
made no use of what he had stolen was put down partly to
the effect of remorse, partly to his abnormal mental con-
dition at the time of the crime. Incidentally the murder of
Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man
commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Fi-
nally, the confession, at the very moment when the case was
hopelessly muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay
through melancholy and fanaticism, and when, moreover,
there were no proofs against the real criminal, no suspi-
cions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word) —all
this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances,
too, in the prisoner’s favour came out quite unexpectedly.
Razumihin somehow discovered and proved that while

Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 747

Raskolnikov was at the university he had helped a poor
consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny
on supporting him for six months, and when this student
died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained
almost from his thirteenth year, Raskolnikov had got the
old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when he
died. Raskolnikov’s landlady bore witness, too, that when
they had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskol-
nikov had rescued two little children from a house on fire
and was burnt in doing so. This was investigated and fairly
well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an im-
pression in his favour.

And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of ex-
tenuating circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in
the second class for a term of eight years only.

At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov’s moth-
er fell ill. Dounia and Razumihin found it possible to get
her out of Petersburg during the trial. Razumihin chose a
town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so as to be
able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time
to see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria
Alexandrovna’s illness was a strange nervous one and was
accompanied by a partial derangement of her intellect.

When Dounia returned from her last interview with her
brother, she had found her mother already ill, in feverish
delirium. That evening Razumihin and she agreed what
answers they must make to her mother’s questions about
Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother’s
benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia

748 Crime and Punishment

on a business commission, which would bring him in the
end money and reputation.

But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna never asked them anything on the subject, neither
then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own ver-
sion of her son’s sudden departure; she told them with tears
how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting that she
alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that
Rodya had many very powerful enemies, so that it was nec-
essary for him to be in hiding. As for his future career, she
had no doubt that it would be brilliant when certain sinister
influences could be removed. She assured Razumihin that
her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article
and brilliant literary talent proved it. This article she was
continually reading, she even read it aloud, almost took it to
bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodya was, though
the subject was obviously avoided by the others, which
might have been enough to awaken her suspicions.

They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexan-
drovna’s strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for
instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though
in previous years she had only lived on the hope of letters
from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great uneasi-
ness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother
suspected that there was something terrible in her son’s fate
and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still
more awful. In any case, Dounia saw clearly that her mother
was not in full possession of her faculties.

It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Al-

Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 749

exandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was
impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodya
was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious an-
swers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood
lasted for a long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard
to deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was bet-
ter to be absolutely silent on certain points; but it became
more and more evident that the poor mother suspected
something terrible. Dounia remembered her brother’s tell-
ing her that her mother had overheard her talking in her
sleep on the night after her interview with Svidrigaïlov and
before the fatal day of the confession: had not she made out
something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of
gloomy silence and tears would be succeeded by a period
of hysterical animation, and the invalid would begin to talk
almost incessantly of her son, of her hopes of his future….
Her fancies were sometimes very strange. They humoured
her, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they
were pretending), but she still went on talking.

Five months after Raskolnikov’s confession, he was sen-
tenced. Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as often
as it was possible. At last the moment of separation came.
Dounia swore to her brother that the separation should not
be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his
youthful ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations
at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four
years, and saving up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a
country rich in every natural resource and in need of work-
ers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the

750 Crime and Punishment